


I'm the loser (you know I'm gonna come undone)

by stupidwithu



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanfiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sick Eddie Kaspbrak, Sickfic, Soft Richie Tozier, TW: mentions of Eddie's mom & abuse, richie's pining but nothing is established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidwithu/pseuds/stupidwithu
Summary: Eddie's sick and Richie loves him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & The Losers Club, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 111





	I'm the loser (you know I'm gonna come undone)

**Author's Note:**

> this is extremely self-indulgent and honestly not that well written but it’s here now

Eddie collapses into the hammock with a deep-rooted sigh. Subconsciously, his legs swing over the edge of it, in the direction of Richie’s head, who catches both Eddie’s ankles in a single hand.

“Occupado, asshole.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says emptily. His voice is unusually subdued, Richie thinks, and the taller boy crinkles his nose at the sound of it.

“What’s your problem?” Eddie glares.

“What’s _yours_?”

Their banter is jaded. For once, there’s no venom – or even humor – behind Richie’s words. Just curiosity.

Eddie, on the other hand, seems… off.

“Eds?”

Eddie groans.

“You okay?”

Eddie offers a sock-clad tap to Richie’s left cheek. Richie slaps his foot away, rolling his eyes when it comes right back, knocking the rims off the bridge of his nose.

“I’m serious,” Richie exhales. “You look—”

“Like shit,” Stanley finishes. Richie narrows his eyes at him, like he’s just now remembering he and Eddie aren’t alone.

This seems to catch the rest of the Losers’ attention. They turn in eerie unison to face the boys, with looks that are equal parts interest and concern. Richie blushes. He nudges Eddie away.

Eddie makes himself known with a soft whimper, curling in on himself with his back to the group (Richie can still see his face, all scrunched up and irritated). Eddie doesn’t like the attention he’s getting. Not now. Not like this.

“I just don’t feel good, okay?” His voice is muffled by his own knees, pressed against his lips like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “Leave me alone.”

Richie’s seconds away from a _Seriously, Eds? How old are you?_ when Bill cuts him off.

“What’s wr… what’s wrong, Eddie?”

For some reason, watching his friends fret over the boy before him makes Richie feel strange. An uncomfortable sensation bubbles up in his stomach and his blood goes warm. He swallows hard, opens his mouth, and says nothing.

In a matter of seconds, Beverly is crouched at Eddie’s side, one of her hands finding residence beneath his hair. Bill stands behind her, arms crossed, and Ben’s there too, like he wants to make sure he looks _useful_ and _caring_ , in case Bev happens to look his way.

Stanley and Mike keep their distance, and Richie doesn’t blame them, because a few hushed whispers into the love triangle’s apprehensive exchange and Eddie’s bolting upright, pushing them away – or at least attempting to. Richie scrambles to plant a foot on the ground to keep himself from falling as Eddie rocks the hammock.

“Stop!” He screeches. “Stop fucking touching me. I mean it!”

He’s breathing heavy. Richie can tell he’s got more to say.

“Eddie—” Ben starts, but Beverly gives the smallest shake of her head and he purses his lips. How _does_ she do it?

“Guys,” Mike says then, and all heads but Eddie’s follow his voice. He cocks his head in the direction of the clubhouse entrance. “A word?”

With hesitant, almost shameful movements, they follow Mike and Stan up the ladder and into the afternoon sun.

Richie lingers a few seconds longer. He’s waiting for what he knows is coming: some form of Eddie asking him to stay.

As if on cue, he tugs feebly at Richie’s wrist.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, not even when Richie tries one of his more annoying nicknames, but he doesn’t loosen his grip, either, and nobody seems to mind when they don’t move at all.

* * *

When Eddie wakes, it’s to the feeling of Richie’s hands cupping both sides of his face.

For a moment, the soft yet slightly panicked brush of Richie’s skin against his cheeks makes Eddie think he’s at the Neibolt house again. His arm jolts in protest, but it doesn’t hurt like it did before. It’s not broken, and that’s not where they are.

_The clubhouse_ , Eddie remembers slowly.

While he was asleep, it got dark. Richie switched positions somewhere between Stanley saying goodbye and Bev popping back in to kiss Eddie’s forehead. They’re laying in the same direction now, still in the hammock, bodies pushed together so that Eddie’s fanny pack is pressed uncomfortably to Richie’s torso. A surge of guilt runs through him. He wonders how long they’ve been like this. Eddie thinks he remembers Richie playing with his hair, but he might’ve dreamt that.

“Wha—Where’s everyone?”

“Not here,” Richie shrugs. He’s sweating, Eddie notices. _How the fuck? It’s freezing._ “Bill was the last one to leave, like an hour ago. I would’ve gone, too, but you just looked so adorable laying here all feverish and helpless, I—”

“Beep beep,” Eddie coughs. “R-Richie.”

“Oh, come on!” Richie has an argument on the tip of his tongue (that was _not_ means for a beeping, Eds), but it falls to nothing when the coughing doesn’t stop. “Eddie!”

Eddie tries to sit up, but he’s light in the hammock and Richie’s weighing it down. He makes it halfway up before collapsing into Richie’s chest, pushing against him without an ounce of strength. He starts to wheeze, and Richie springs into action.

He falls to his knees before a now-seated Eddie, who hacks into the crook of his elbow. Richie winces, rather unhelpfully, giving one of his shoulders a tight squeeze. “C’mon, Eds. It’s okay. Breathe.”

When he’s able, Eddie punches Richie in the chest. “I’m trying, dipshit.”

Richie just smiles.

“I’m sorry you’re sick.”

Eddie frowns. Richie sounds so sincere. “I’m not—”

“Ben said he’d stop by with meds and if those don’t help, I’ll—”

Eddie pales.

“Shit, are you gonna puke?”

Eddie ignores him. “What meds?”

“I don’t fucking know, like, fever reducer…? I’m not a doctor.”

Eddie stands, nearly knocking Richie over in the process. A sudden fury crosses over his features. He fumbles with the buckle of his fanny pack, but his hands are trembling.

Richie rises in a matter of seconds, towering over him in a more natural stance. He covers Eddie’s hands with his own, an uncharacteristic gentleness overcoming him. “What do you need?”

Richie reaches for the zipper just as Eddie gets the belt undone. He tosses the bag as far as he can manage. It hits the wall then crashes against the ground with an empty thud. Richie flinches.

“Eddie?”

“Nothing! I don’t—I don’t fucking need anything in there!”

“Uh,”

“I don’t need medicine, Richie.”

Richie makes a weird face. Eddie wants to punch him.

“Oh.”

“Fucking _what_ , Richie?”

“This is about Sonia.”

“What?!” Eddie’s eyes go wide. “No, it isn’t.”

“Of course it is.” Richie runs a hand over his face. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner! That fucking bitch traumatized you.”

“N-no.”

“You’re not _sick_ , Eddie Bear, but you are sick—like with the flu or some shit, it’s actually disgusting—”

Eddie swings, but Richie avoids the hit easily.

“Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry," Richie says, sincere again. "I'm sorry she lied to you."

Eddie says nothing, but his chest is heaving and his cheeks are burning red.

“That’s, like, a lot to unpack and it’s getting late, but—"

"Stop,"

"—you know your mom’s a piece of shit and I don’t think—”

“Fuck you, Richie.”

At that, Richie stops. Not because of the dark hatred that his favorite person in the entire world just spat at him, but because Eddie’s crying. Actually, openly sobbing. Eddie was furious and screeching and burning red and Richie blinked and now his face is wet and blotchy and he’s hiccupping and _fucking crying_. Just like that.

“Eds…”

“My mom loves me.”

“I—”

“Shut the fuck up. Just—just, for once in your goddamn life, Richie—”

“That’s not fair.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Eddie’s furious again, but it’s short-lived. He takes a half-step forward before his knees buckle and he collapses into Richie’s open arms. He’s sick, gross, and _mean_ but Richie doesn’t even blink. He pulls him close, waiting patiently as Eddie cries into his shirt.

“My mom loves me,” he sobs.

One of Richie’s hands snakes up Eddie’s neck, simultaneously testing his fever and taking the ends of his hair between his fingers in a soothing gesture. The other arm’s around his waist, keeping him steady. Eddie’s otherwise completely limp, clenching and unclenching the damp fabric on Richie’s back.

“ _I_ love you,” Richie says without thinking. Eddie sniffles. “I just mean… of course your mom loves you, Eds, she just—I don’t know. She just—She doesn’t—”

Richie pauses, takes a deep breath. He knows what he wants to say. He just doesn’t know if Eddie wants to hear it. Honestly, he thinks he already knows.

“The losers love you,” he corrects. “And we don’t want to see you sick, or hurting, like, ever…”

Richie sighs. “Look at you, Eds.”

He’s referring to Eddie’s sickly pale skin, his glossy eyes, chapped lips, and the way his tiny body shakes as his voice cracks. Richie knows he’ll be fine, but he can’t help the way his heart breaks.

“We weren't thinking," he admits. "About the meds. You don’t have to take them if you don’t want to. We just thought it might help if you woke up still feeling shitty and it seems like—”

Richie cuts himself off again. Eddie's no longer giving him the type of look that demands an explanation, so he just shuts up.

“Anyways... are you done needing consoling? Because I’m not good at it and if you ever tell anyone I’m saying all this sappy shit, Edward, so help me—”

Eddie squeezes him tight. “I’ll take them.”

“Okay.”

“Please don’t take me home.”

“I won't.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

“—I just wanna be here, just for a little while longer.”

Richie would stay with him all night, if he asked.

Eddie pulls away, just slightly, and Richie helps him stand on his own. They’re silent for a while. Eddie’s staring, but Richie can’t bring himself to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Richie wants to kiss the words off his lips. He leans down and kisses his clammy forehead instead. Eddie’s eyes are wide and Richie’s are closed, until Richie pulls away and they blink their expressions back to normal.

“And I, uh, I love you too, Rich.”


End file.
